Runaway
by Shailee-Sue
Summary: "The demand is constant, unrelenting, and inescapable. The voice of some wise, inner instinct that you already know better than to ignore. 'Run', it repeats insistently. So you do."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: My second Leverage fic. Written from the viewpoint of my favorite character... Parker. She's a very difficult character to write, so please let me know how i did. If there's enough interest, I plan to continue this... maybe into four or five chapters, so leave me a review and let me know whether I should continue or not. It's un-betaed, so all mistakes are my own.**

**I didn't re-watch the episode before I wrote this, but I don't believe that the name of Parker's brother was ever revealed, so I just picked one. Please correct me if I'm wrong.**

**Disclaimer: Despite several failed neogtiations, a temper tantrum or two, and a startling amount of attempted bribe money... I _still _don't own Leverage or any of the characters. **

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Runaway

"_I am more than you know, street lights and open roads._

_And I am more than a face, stuck living in one place."_

_Run. _

The single word reverberates inside your mind, echoing back again and again, increasing in panicked desperation with every repetition.

_Run. Run. Run._

The demand is constant, unrelenting, and inescapable. The voice of some wise, inner instinct that you already know better than to ignore. _Run_, it repeats insistently. So, you do.

Your heart races, slamming repeatedly against your ribcage like a caged animal; frightened, desperate, and doing its best to beat its way out of your chest. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps, and your lungs burn with every inhalation of the frigid evening air. Your small, sneaker-clad feet thump rhythmically against the pavement with a steady slapping sound that might be soothing if you could hear it over the rush of blood in your ears and the frantic hammering of your heartbeat. But you can't, and it's not.

Black spider webs creep along the edges of your vision as your head pounds in time with your footsteps. Every muscle in your body is stretched taunt, quivering with a combination of fear and adrenaline. Every nerve screams at you to stop, and you feel as though you could collapse at any moment. But that panicked inner instinct demands that you run, so you force yourself to keep moving.

You stumble, and throw your hands out ahead of you to keep from crashing face-first into the pavement, dropping your stuffed rabbit in the process. The concrete scrapes across your palms and rips viciously at the knees of your jeans as you fall to the ground.

Your eyes fill with tears, and although you hate crying with every fiber of your being, you can't quite stop them from overflowing; spilling in twin rivers down your cheeks, and splattering onto the sidewalk. You wipe them away furiously, swallowing against the sobs rising in your throat.

Bunny stares at you with accusing eyes from the spot on the sidewalk where you dropped him, and you close your eyes against the haunting image.

"I'm sorry," you whisper almost inaudibly, struggling futilely against the need to cry.

You blink against the tears, and the horrid scene runs through your mind again, with every detail preserved in perfect clarity. Every sound as loud and clear as the first time you'd heard it. Every feeling just as sharp, just as devastating. And yet, you can't stop yourself from seeing it, hearing it, feeling it again.

"_Look! Look! I can do it!" _

_The excitement in his voice is contagious and you smile in spite of yourself, rolling your eyes affectionately as you cast a glance over your shoulder to see himpeddling furiously behind you. It's not the first time he's ridden the bike, but it is the first time you've allowed him to follow you to your favorite hill. Only because he wouldn't stop begging you, you remind yourself. _

"_I've been doing it since I was four," You inform him primly, peddling a little faster down the street, and shooting him a superior look over your shoulder._

"_And now I can too!" he squeals excitedly, completely unaffected by your big-sister superiority. _

_You wrinkle your nose at him and turn back around, relishing the feel of the handlebars beneath your fingers and the rush of the wind as it blows against your face and whips your blonde hair wildly around your face. There is something about riding a bike as fast as possible down a steep hill that makes your heart beat a little faster and your lips curl into a smile._

_It's freedom in its purest form. And you love every minute of it. _

_You hit the brakes, stopping at the bottom of the hill, and turning the bike around gracefully. _

"_Your turn," you challenge your brother, smirking at his awed expression. He stares down at you from the top of the hill, his blue eyes as wide as dinner plates and his lips opened into a perfect "o" of astonishment._

"_I can't," he admits sheepishly, shaking his head. "I'll die."_

"Scaredy-cat_," you taunt, half-teasing, half- annoyed._

"_Am not. I just…" he replies, but the rest of the sentence is lost in the sudden squeal of car brakes. _

_After that, everything seems to happen simultaneously. There's a scream, a sickening bump, and the overwhelming sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. _

_Then the car is racing down the hill, speeding toward you. Instinctively, you jump out of the way, abandoning the bike. The car misses you – barely, and speeds around the corner. Fantically, you look toward the top of the hill, but Josh has disappeared._

_Then there's the heavy, unnatural silence. The kind of silence that hangs in the air in movies right after something bad happens and everything switches to slow motion. The calm before the storm. _

"_Josh…" _

_In your mind, his name comes as a shout, but it leaves your lips as a strangled whisper. You wait for what seems like an eternity, frozen in place by fear and confusion. You know what's coming, and you can't quite brace yourself against the knowledge that everything in you begs to deny. _

"_Josh," you try again, louder this time, more desperate._

_The silence is the only answer._

The sound of a car horn brings you jolting back to reality. Your eyes snap open and everything is suddenly disorienting. Wiping tears from your eyes, you crawl over to Bunny and gather him carefully into your arms, clutching him protectively to your chest.

You have no idea how far you've run. Five blocks? Ten? Twenty? It doesn't matter. It's not far enough. You could run to the other side of the continent and it still wouldn't be far enough.

You don't know what time it is, but the sky has darkened to the color of faded ink and stars are beginning to twinkle overhead.

That strong, panicked voice of instinct has abandoned you, and now you don't know what to do next. There's no outrunning the memory, and your whole body aches from trying. You're not sure that you can force yourself to move at all, let alone continue sprinting toward some unknown destination without even instinct to guide you.

The tears fall a little faster and you hug Bunny again, searching for some kind of comfort in the familiarity of his soft fur and floppy ears. You don't find any.

You want to curl up into a ball right there on the sidewalk and just lay there until someone finds you. Someone with a sweet smile and a soft voice. Someone who doesn't hit you when they're angry. Someone who doesn't know about the terrible thing you've done.

But even at seven, you're old enough to know that that will never happen. So you force yourself to your feet and look around for a safe place to hide.

Half a block ahead, barely discernable beneath the amber glow of a flickering streetlamp, is a park. Or at least, what passes for a park in this part of town.

It's just a small, vacant lot with a rusted jungle gym, a single set of monkey bars, and two slides. But it's better than wandering around alone after dark. You walk toward it, biting down on your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

The jungle gym rises up from the shadows like the skeletal framework of an abandoned building, the central feature of a long-dead ghost town. The flickering light of the streetlamp casts shifting shadows beneath the monkey bars, creating a criss-crossing pattern that reminds you of a spider's web, half-hidden in the darkness and waiting to swallow up anyone who wanders too near. The twisty slide at the other side of the park looks like a snake, slithering through the shadows, patient, powerful, and poised to strike.

It's eerie and haunted-looking, like an abandoned set for a scary movie that no one ever got around to filming. You hate it instantly, but you have no other choice.

Clutching Bunny to your chest, you venture into the shadows, finding a safe place beneath one of the slides. You lean against the slide's support rail, hugging your knees to your chest and resting your head against Bunny's soft fur. Fear and desperation do their bast to keep you awake, pinching at you conscience every time you get comfortable, but eventually exhaution wins the emotional war, and you fall asleep.

Hours later, an unfamiliar sound jolts you into awareness, waking you instantly from your restless, dream-filled sleep. A small light is sweeping across the playground, banishing the shadows and casting small sections of the park into brilliant illumination. Before you can scramble to safety, the light falls across your hiding place.

You freeze.

Your heart races and that inner instinct shouts at you again.

_Run. Run. Run._

You grab Bunny, and are about to dash into the safety of the shadows, when an unfamiliar voice stops you.

"Hello sweetheart."

The voice is female, soft and sympathetic. A woman crouches down in front of you, moving the bright beam of her flashlight to the side so that it's no longer blinding you. She's dressed in uniform with a shiny bronze nametag clipped to her chest.

A police officer, you realize with another jolt of fear.

"Can you tell me your name?" she asks in that same soft voice.

You don't answer.

The crackle of radio static slices through the silence, and you jump at the sudden sound. The woman reaches for the small hand-held radio clipped to her belt, never taking her eyes off of your face.

"This is unit 214," she says into the radio's speaker with a weary sigh, "I've got a runaway.

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**So, what did you think? Should I continue? Leave me a review and let me know. **

**Thanks so much for reading,**

**Shailee =)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello everyone. Thank you so much for all of the lovely reviews, they're incredibly encouraging. Obviously, I have decided to continue this fic, although I went in a slightly different direction than I'd orginally planned, so please let me know what you think. **

**The timeline of Parker's backstory is a little confusing. I tried to keep it consistant with the show, but if I've messed anything up just call it taking creative liberty.**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Leverage. **

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Chapter 2

"_I don't believe in your hate, cause these scars are gonna fade_

_So pour me out like water and soak me up like rain."_

_Run_

That inner instinct is screaming at you again, and by now you're so attuned to it that your body reacts before your mind even has the chance to process the demand.

Your muscles tense, and adrenaline surges through you, bringing with it the familiar wave of icy clarity that you've come to relish. Suddenly, everything comes into focus, perfectly clear and strikingly sharp, a scene straight out of a well-shot movie, playing out across a giant screen in high definition. Every color brightens, every sound sharpens, and every tiny detail suddenly stands out crystal clear against the faded background of monotony.

In that moment, everything else ceases to matter, and despite the rapid hammering of your heartbeat and the sudden rush of blood through your ears, you smile.

It's almost like the thrill of racing a bicycle down a steep hill, but without the unbearable tide of guilt that crashes over you anytime you even vaguely contemplate that particular sensation. It's that same wild, liberating sense of freedom, but less surreal, less uncertain. It's more vivid, more tangible, more like a physical presence. And you love it.

You can hear the wail of police sirens in the distance, barely discernable over the agonizing screech of the security alarm. It's embarrassing really, the fact that you set off the alarm. Though in your defense, it was an entirely unnecessary backup alarm. The same entirely unnecessary backup alarm that Erik had confidently assured you didn't exist. Lying bastard.

Your concentration is, as it should be, entirely focused on your pre-planned escape, but some distant part of your consciousness that you're only vaguely aware of is cursing with the fluent vocabulary of a convicted felon, damning Erik to the blackest corner of hell. And it's hard to believe that the sheer force of your fury isn't enough to send him there.

But, as angry as you are with him, it's nothing compared to how furious you are with yourself for having trusted him in the first place. Even at twelve years old, you pride yourself on being a cynic. You've always considered yourself immune to the basic human weaknesses of trust and dependence. You've always been self-reliant, because it's been your only chance of survival.

_Expect the worst. _

_Have an escape route. _

_Work alone._

_Trust no one._

They're your mottos; the fragmented phrases and whispered warnings that you've always relied on to keep you safe. And until Erik, they had worked perfectly. But, with nothing more than a challenge and a charming smile, he had slipped past your barriers and effortlessly destroyed everything you prided yourself on.

Damn him.

_You move through the crowd with practiced ease, swiping wallets and watches almost absentmindedly. It's so easy that it's not really fair, and certainly not challenging enough to be fun. It's a parade for god's sake. Familiar streets crowded with the chatter and laughter of moronic tourists, toting their expensive cameras along and snapping pictures at every opportunity, wallets brimming with cash tucked into shallow, tempting pockets. _

_They might as well have hung a neon sign: COME PICK POCKETS HERE! It would have been less obvious._

_"Sorry," you mutter half-heartedly as you bump into a middle-aged woman with a sour expression and a truly disgusting fire-engine red jacket, slipping her wallet out of her handbag and into the pocket of your over-sized black hoodie with a practiced motion. She glares at you impatiently and mutters a particularly unflattering insult before fading back into the crowd. You flip her off as soon as her back is turned._

_A soft chuckle from behind has you whipping around. He's standing there, watching you with his hands tucked casually into his pockets and an amused smile stretching across his lips. _

_"Not bad kid," he compliments you, jerking his chin toward the crowd into which the woman had disappeared, "Nice lift."_

_You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide how much of a potential threat he poses. Physically, he isn't intimidating, a slender kid of about sixteen with sharp, chocolate brown eyes and shaggy black hair. Even with his longer legs, you're certain that you can outrun him if it comes to that. _

_His eyes twinkle with undisguised amusement as he rakes his gaze over you, starting at the top of your messy blonde ponytail and trailing down over your face - taking in the angular features and suspicious eyes - past your over-sized hoodie and hand-me-down jeans, and finally coming to rest on your flat-soled sneakers. _

_His eyes flick lazily back up to your face, taking in your hostile expression as well as the well-concealed uncertainty behind it. _

"C_ute."_

_He has less than a second to relish the look of utter shock on your face before your small fist slams into his jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. _

"_Fuck you," you hiss, turning on your heel and storming off in an uncharacteristically childish display of temper. _

Cute_. Even in your head the word sounds like an insult. _It's_ a disgusting adjective, reserved for sweet, rosy-cheeked little girls named "Suzy" and "Cindy" and "Sally" that wear frilly pink dresses and obsess over their perfectly-curled hair. _Cute_ is childish, a pathetically feminine description used for baby animals, young children, and plastic dolls. _

_You are not cute. Not even close._

_You're so furious that you can do nothing more that stare at him when he grabs your wrist and uses the force of your own momentum to spin you around so that you're facing him again._

_"Hey," he says apologetically, "my bad, okay? Cute was not the right word."_

_A million possible responses race through your mind with lightning speed, each one more vulgar and offensive than the last, but he's still holding your wrist, more tightly than necessary, and all traces of amusement have vanished from his expression. Now, he's staring at you in a combination of poorly-concealed anger and grudging admiration. _

_"Nice punch," he offers when you don't reply, rubbing his free hand over his jaw, still astonished by your unexpected reaction, "I didn't see it coming."_

_You say nothing._

_"I'm Erik, by the way," he continues, rubbing his free hand over his jaw, still astounded by your unexpected reaction, "Erik with a K."_

_His lips quirk up into a smile, not the smirk of amusement that he'd worn a moment ago, but a genuine, slightly crooked smile. A rush of adrenaline shoots through you, but instead of the icy clarity that you'd been hoping for, it brings only more uncertainty. He must somehow sense your hesitation, because he releases your wrist and takes a half step back from you, still smiling. _

_"You got a name babe?" he asks, his eyes trained unblinkingly on your face, trying to read your expression. Your eyes narrow and he holds his hands up in apology _

_"Sorry," he says quickly, "the 'babe' thing is just a reflex."_

_You stare at him for a moment, uncomfortable with the sudden and almost overwhelming sense of uncertainty that washes over you when he smiles again. _

_"Parker," you say finally, hesitating slightly at the sound of it. It's not your name, or at least not all of it, but it's the first thing that comes to mind, and you learned long ago never to argue with instinct._

_"Parker," he repeats, his smile shifting back into that infuriating half-smirk of amusement. "I could use your help."_

"Damn it!" you curse furiously, as you sprint down the sidewalk toward the safety of a nearby alleyway.

Your heart is slamming against your ribcage with the unyielding ferocity of a jackhammer and every breath makes you feel as though your lungs are about to explode, but the necklace is still tucked carefully into your bag; at least that part had gone according to plan. It's the first time you've broken into anything more complicated than a residential home, and if it weren't for the fact that you were naive enough to rely on someone else's plans, you would have gotten away from the museum without a problem.

Half an hour later, you slip back through the second story window of your bedroom by way of the ancient oak tree in your latest foster home's front yard.

Bunny stares at you from his place on the bed, tucked lovingly against the pillows, and you tell him the story of the break-in, describing in perfect detail how Erik had recruited you to slip through the ventilation shaft because he was too big to go crawling through air vents himself. You explain about evading the museum guards, accidentally setting off the alarm, and about the frantic race to escape before the police arrived.

You're far too old to believe that Bunny can actually hear you, but you're high on adrenaline and far too wired to care that he'll never actually respond. So, you recount every vivid detail of your first real heist with a kind of thrilling energy that you've never felt before.

It's like the feeling of riding a bike for the first time, that same rush of adrenaline that you get from swiping wallets or boosting cars, but in a much more concentrated form. The rush of adrenaline, the sudden clarity, the immense burst of satisfaction that comes with pulling off the impossible steals through like a drug. It's your own personal brand of heroine, and you're completely addicted.

You're too wired to sleep, even though it's already almost three in the morning, and you'll be dragged out of bed against your will and shipped off to the utter hell hole that is middle school in less than four hours. Your hands are practically shaking with excitement as you slip the small backpack off of your shoulder and unzip it.

The exchange had been simple. No face to face contact. You'd taken the bag with the necklace to a pre-arranged spot, and exchanged it for an identical bag containing your payment. It was simplicity personified.

Grinning like a five year old on Christmas morning, you reach into the bag, already envisioning the money. One thousand dollars in clean, perfectly-pressed, straight-from-the-bank bills, not a bad haul for a one night job. But instead of the silken feel of cash that you're expecting, your fingers brush against a rough piece of folded paper.

You freeze, doing your best to deny what your senses are telling you.

You hadn't checked the bag.

The thought hits you like a punch to the face, leaving you reeling and disoriented. You had been in a hurry, paranoid about being followed, and still running on the adrenaline of your narrow escape. You'd switched the bags without a second thought, never even considering the possibility of a double cross.

At the time, getting out safely had been your only priority; the weight of the bag hadn't even registered. Looking into it now, you realize that you should have known as soon as you picked it up. It wasn't heavy enough.

There's no cash inside. The bag is completely empty except for the small, carefully-folded piece of paper that your fingers had brushed against.

You had been too wired, too afraid of being caught, too giddy with the rush of evading the authorities to have checked the bags. And it was that inexperience that Erik had been counting on.

Damn him.

Running on autopilot, you pull the piece of paper from the bag, unfolding it methodically, still numbed by disbelief. You squint at the small, untidy handwriting, the thrill of escape dissolving more rapidly with every word.

**_"Sorry babe, but you should know better than to trust a thief."_**

**_- Erik_**

You let out a soft snort of disbelief, astounded that you could be so stupid as to have allowed this to happen. Even after he'd neglected to tell you about the alarm, you still had never believed that Erik would betray you.

You glance over at Bunny, still seated on the bed, watching you silently. Possessed by a new wave of frantic energy, you dash across the room, gathering clothes, taking all of your cash from the hiding spots around the room that you've stashed it in, and throwing everything into your backpack.

You open the window, staring silently at the giant oak tree, half-illuminated by the moonlight. You grab Bunny from the bed, and sparing only a passing thought for your foster parents who are sleeping soundly in the master bedroom, do the one thing you do best...

You run.

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**This is just my take on why Eriks with 'k's are evil. **

**So... Thoughts? Liked it? Didn't like it? Favorite part? Least favorite part? ... I don't care, just leave me a reivew and tell me _something. _**

**Thanks so much for reading,**

**Shailee =)**


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